


Repercussions

by Haldane



Series: Irezumi [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 04:53:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haldane/pseuds/Haldane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John slept with Mycroft.  Sherlock is annoyed.  Sherlock takes action.  Mycroft takes John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Repercussions

John all but bounced up the front steps of 221b Baker Street. What had looked like being another shitty night spent brooding alone had turned into something altogether more spectacular. He'd had one of the best evenings, nights, and mornings of his life, and even the grimy street seemed brighter today.

He bounded through the door of the flat, still on a high that evaporated in about two seconds flat as Sherlock took one look at him, and then shot to his feet with his face aghast. "John! You _didn't!_ "

John bit back the reflexive "Didn't what?" that sprang to his lips. There was no point lying to Sherlock, and no reason why he should. "What's your problem?"

"How could you _do_ that? I thought we were getting along splendidly, and now you've changed sides on me!"

That wasn't what he'd been expecting. "Are we talking about the same thing?" John ventured.

"You," Sherlock bit off the words, "had sex with my brother."

"Yes," John said. "But I fail to see how it upsets you so. You made your own lack of interest clear enough on the first day."

"It's not to do with me. It's to do with Mycroft. I've told you, he is _not_ on my side."

"Well, who is on your side?" John was getting genuinely angry now. "Should I have slept with Lestrade? Donovan? _Anderson?_ Or perhaps you'd prefer I picked up random strangers in bars and brought them back here, where they could wander through your things and fiddle with your experiments? Or is it a requirement of your friendship that I remain totally celibate? Just because you choose to doesn't mean I have to play by your rules."

"Sex isn't such a big deal," Sherlock dismissed.

"You're the one making it a big deal. How about this: I don't decide what's a big deal or not for you, and you don't decide for me. I could accept it - barely - if you didn't want me bringing people here, since the flat's yours as well as mine," John thought of the human body parts in the fridge and decided on the spot that he was never, ever, bringing anyone home, "but otherwise I really don't see that you get a say in the matter."

Sherlock cocked his head to one side. "So you agree that I do have _some_ say?" he asked. "What if I said that I don't want you emotionally incapacitated when it turns out you were just another one night stand? It's not like he made any promises, did he?" John felt a flicker of doubt. "Sex is an itch; you were handy. It's best you forget about expecting anything more."

Sherlock's voice was persuasive; deep and smooth, making all his words sound more reasonable. John had been pulled along in his wake so many times that he found himself frowning and nodding, accepting that Sherlock must know his brother far more than John could on their few meetings so far. Mycroft hadn't promised anything; not even an: "I'll call you later". John stared at his feet, but Sherlock's voice still reached his ears. "I want you with me. I have to be able to depend on you."

John had opened his mouth to make some sort of apology when his phone beeped with an incoming text, startling him and shattering his thoughts. He turned around to read it, not that it was likely to make any difference to Sherlock's perceptions of its contents.

_Careful what you agree_  
 _to. I would rather not lose_  
 _your company so soon._  
 _MH_

John smiled. "It seems you brother is more affectionate that you give him credit for."

"Mycroft is as affectionate as a piranha," Sherlock said dismissively. "He's probably only fucking you to get to me."

"In that case, you've fallen for it," John had a burst of inspiration. "What if you simply accepted it, and threw his plans out?"

Sherlock considered this in silence. "You still agree to not meet him here?"

That seemed innocent enough. "Yes." John hastened to cut off any further speculation. "But that's the only concession I'm willing to make."

"Very well," Sherlock said. "We'll see how it turns out."

===============

John stood immobile on the street corner, having reached one of his life's all-time low moments. 

The day had started well enough, his quarrel with Sherlock apparently patched up, and he'd gone off to work in a perfectly fine mood. Sherlock had even come past at midday and bought him lunch.

John should have known that Sherlock had an ulterior motive. When it came time to leave work, he found his pockets empty of both wallet and phone. This not only prevented him from using public transport to get home, but also from calling anyone for help about it. Very well, he thought, it was only a couple of miles; he could walk that far, despite the ominous grey of the sky.

The rain held off until he was just far enough away from work to make it not worthwhile returning to wait it out in the dry. John just plodded along, feeling the water trickle down the back of his neck and creep though his shoes and into his socks. It was still better than the dirt and sand of Afghanistan, he told himself, although he had to admit a little of the scorching heat would be welcome about now.

He still might have make it okay, by holding out the thought of a nice, hot shower on arriving home followed by a large serving of Chinese food, if it's hadn't been for the lady with the umbrella. She had been elderly, and seeing her struggling to get her umbrella up, John had naturally stopped to help. This put his back to the road, preventing him from seeing the bus coming along close to the gutter, and from seeing that the apparently shallow puddle was actually a deep pothole full to the brim.

The icy water hit him from hip to ankle, soaking his trousers, making them not only wet but dirty as well. The heavy fabric clung to his leg, promising to chafe terribly, and he could feel the grit on his skin. _So I’m not only wet, but dirty as well_ , he thought. _Seems I get no breaks at all today_.

John was too tired to feel anger. Instead, a heavy depression settled squarely on his shoulders. He stared at his feet, drooping in both body and soul, and wished that he could simply stop existing. He wished he wasn't too grown up to have somebody come rescue him.

A large black car pulled up in front of him.

A man jumped from the front passenger side and opened the rear door. John got in without hesitating. He was pretty sure he recognised the car as Mycroft's, and even if it wasn't, he would just about welcome being kidnapped right now, if it meant being taken out of the rain and given a chance to sit down.

He shifted his weight into the car, but then froze in a half-crouch, one foot on the carpet and one still outside. It wasn't the other occupant - Mycroft, as he had expected – that startled him, but hit with such an abrupt change in environment, John realised just how wet and dirty he was. He didn't want to ruin the perfect atmosphere here, the sudden warmth, the heady smell of the leather upholstery combined with a slight tinge of Mycroft's aftershave, even the quiet after the bustle of a London street.

"Sit, sit!" Mycroft waved him in. "Don't worry about the seats. If you ruin them, I'll get new ones."

John sat, wincing as he squelched on the pristine comfort of the seat, and Mycroft frowned slightly as they moved out into the traffic. "You _are_ in a state, aren't you? Just give me a moment..."

He pulled down the armrest and reached into the luggage area behind the back seat, coming back with, of all things, a pair of fat white towels. "You'll want to take your shoes and socks off, at the least."

John realised that he very much did want exactly that. His feet had always been a bit of a weak point; they tended to chafe and blister easily, and although he had coped in Afghanistan, he hadn't enjoyed it. His months back in London had repaired a lot of the damage, but they were still one of his more sensitive spots.

When he sat back again, feet already feeling better just to be out of the clinging folds of wet material that had been his socks, he was surprised to see that Mycroft had one towel spread across his lap, and was holding the other. He beckoned imperiously, holding his free hand out in an obvious request for John's feet.

John conceded, placing both feet on Mycroft's lap and leaning back into the corner of the seat. He could hardly think coherently; the change in circumstances from the dank cold of less than five minutes before to this warm haven left him dizzy. Resting the side of his face against the back of the seat, he could smell the organic scent of real leather, one of those unreproducible scents, like that of baking bread.

He'd always liked the scent of leather. 

Mycroft took one foot by the ankle, and began drying each toe with precise movements, almost clinically. John bit back an audible sigh, but realised it had got out anyway when he saw Mycroft's mouth quirk briefly in a smile. Five toes, largest to smallest, a rub of the sole with enough pressure not to tickle, and then the other foot. John did not so much close his eyes as fail to stop them from falling shut on their own, attention on the blissful sensations in his feet.

John mentally contrasted Mycroft’s formal outer appearance with the riot of colour he now knew existed on the bare skin underneath. It seemed almost impossible that such a sight could be hidden so completely, and for a moment he wondered if he’d dreamt the entire encounter.

His doubts vanished when his big toe was suddenly wet again, but this time with a warm, close wetness that tingled in his foot and ran straight to his groin. John's eyes popped open, but all he could see of Mycroft was the top of his head as he bent over John's feet. He couldn't see, but damn he could _feel_ , the strong tongue sweeping over his skin while the sucking pulled more blood into the area, rendering it even more sensitive than usual. This time there was no stopping the moan that slipped through his lips.

Mycroft, methodical as ever, moved from the big toe onto the next, left hand still supporting the ankle while his right carefully dried the toe he had just left. John shuddered all over, realising that all ten toes were in for this most intimate handling, and wondering why the hell sucking on one puny little _toe_ felt so much like having his cock receive the same treatment. 

He shouldn't have thought that.

Now his cock was fully awake and interested, as Mycroft moved on to another toe and another, and John's head rolled helplessly back against the car seat, hands twitching slightly by his sides, and the smell of leather filling his head.

Mycroft finished carefully drying the last of John's toes. John felt much warmer, although his trousers were still -

"I would think those wet trousers are uncomfortable as well," Mycroft said.

Under other circumstances, John might have been annoyed by Mycroft picking the thoughts out of his head. Now, it was so much easier to simply roll with it and begin removing the offending clothing, although peeling off the clinging fabric while seated in a car was difficult. After a short struggle, he dropped them to the floor atop his shoes and socks.

Mycroft cleared his throat pointedly. 

John hid a flicker of glee and set to work removing his wet underwear. Even as he finished, Mycroft was on him with the towels, rubbing the chilled flesh to increase the circulation. John moaned quietly with gratification.

John found himself face down, bare skin carefully protected by a thick layer of towel. One leg was stretched along the 'L' made where the seat joined the back, and the other had been gently nudged aside so that knee was on the floor. Mycroft's hands kneaded his ass, broad and warm and very sure of themselves. 

"Good?" Mycroft asked.

"Good, yes, oh yeah, good," John replied somewhat unintelligibly.

Even those few words were beyond him a moment later, as a wet, muscular tongue licked the top of his crevice, sliding slowly downwards as John gasped and moaned, torn between grinding himself into the towel and pushing back into the touch. The decision was made for him as the hands pinned him still, holding him open so that the tongue could pass right over _that_ spot - _ahhhhh_ \- and continue on to stroke the back of his balls. Slowly back up, slowly back down, and John was reduced to panting helplessly.

Mycroft licked and nibbled his way up John's spine, hovering closely over him. Under other circumstances the sensation might have been smothering, but John felt the looming bulk as more protective than anything else. Most of Mycroft's weight was on his knees, but his hands still gripped John's ass. They shifted slightly, one slick thumb rubbing gentle circles around John's entrance.

 _Slick? When the hell had he managed that?_ John lost the thought almost as soon as it formed, when the thumb pressed inwards and began rocking slowly in and out. He made a sound he hoped didn't sound too much like a whimper, trying to press back and draw in more length. 

"Hmmm?" Mycroft questioned lazily.

"Shallow," John panted.

"You want me to move more shallowly?" Mycroft asked in fake concern, removing his thumb back to the first knuckle.

"No.... _less_ shallow," was the best John could manage. "More."

"Ahh. More."

Mycroft pushed further inwards, deftly adding his other thumb. John felt dizzy at the stretch of the tight muscle, but the sure hands holding his ass and the warm breath on the back of his neck made it easy to relax and allow the intrusion. He felt somehow limp and tense at the same time, all his limbs sprawled in any direction, but his dick painfully hard under him and his balls tight with arousal and anticipation. Surely Mycroft wouldn't leave off, not when John _needed_ to be possessed, and now.

Mycroft laughed softly, and John realised he'd said that last word aloud. "As you like," he said, pulling back and leaving John suddenly adrift without his presence. "Shh," Mycroft soothed, rubbing John's back with his left hand.

The weight came back, pressing down on John's thighs and hips, pressing him deeper into the leather seat. John felt the push at his entrance, the stretch so much more than before, opening him to just short of the point of pain. He groaned aloud at the delicious sting, the sheer sensation of a thick solid erection filling him completely. Mycroft slid inwards until he was tight up against John, balls brushing balls and fingers digging deep into his buttocks. He held there for a long moment, before shifting one arm up near John's shoulder to support his body as he began moving in a slow rhythm, taking long strokes, pulling out to almost losing contact, then driving in as deeply as he could go.

John's breathing rasped loud and ragged as he surrendered totally. He let Mycroft set the pace and stroke, available for however Mycroft wished to use him. He responded without thinking to the heavy thrusts, tensing slightly around the fullness on each stroke. 

John abandoned the higher senses of sight and hearing - except for the single sound of Mycroft's breaths coming harsh and quick to his ears - and instead soaked in the sensations of skin against skin, the burning of nerves inside his body at each thrust, and the thick scent in his nose of leather and sweat and sex. He was getting so close, the pleasure reaching an intensity almost too much to bear, when Mycroft slid one hand under his hipbone and unerringly found his swollen cock.

"Come, John," was all he said, and bit down on John's shoulder, hard enough to feel through the layers of shirt and jacket. 

John could no more have held back than he could have stopped the sun from moving. White heat surged outwards from his balls in a wave that was on the very edge of painful. He came, gout after gout of thick wet heat soaking the towel under his stomach, while Mycroft's hand stroked and squeezed and that irresistible voice murmured filthy words in his ear.

John gasped and collapsed bonelessly. Even as he began to recover his breath, Mycroft thrust two or three times more, then a dozen times hard and fast with a single deep grunt before leaning over John's back and falling still, forehead resting on the back of John's neck.

It was only a moment before the surface under John shifted, pushing his weight towards his feet, and he suddenly recalled where he was. 

"Ah," Mycroft said. "All good things come to an end, as they say." He pulled back, leaving John momentarily cold before covering him with the other towel.

Dragging on a set of wet clothes was not how John would have chosen to spend the time immediately after a bout of great sex, but he didn't exactly have a lot of options.

"I'm sorry I can't do anything about your clothes. I don't have any spares here in your size, or I would lend you some. I felt somewhat responsible, since I'm the background cause of Sherlock's current fit of pique."

"Don't apologise for your brother's actions," John said. It had taken him long enough to learn that lesson with Harry.

"Oh, I'm not apologising," Mycroft answered. "I said I felt partly responsible. I didn't say I was _sorry_." And he smiled, with more genuine amiability that John had yet seen from him.

========

John got out of the car in front of 221B Baker Street. The black limo pulled smoothly away, and John squared his shoulders to march inside and recover his wallet and phone. Hopefully Sherlock hadn't planned anything new in the meantime.

Sherlock was gazing at his laptop when John entered. "You're smiling excessively," he said without looking up. "Did the white knight claim your favours as a reward for coming to the rescue?"

John scooped up his things from the desk and returned them to his pockets. "It wasn't in the flat," he pointed out, in too good a mood to bother arguing over Sherlock's choice of language. "That makes it none of your business." He went off towards the shower, whistling tunelessly under his breath.

Sherlock watched him go, and remaining looking in that direction for a long time afterwards.


End file.
